


I Can Hear Your Heartbeat (Can You Hear Mine?)

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Justice League (2017)
Genre: Bruce Feels, Bruce Needs a Hug, Bruce and Clark are best friends, Bruce and Clark are friends, Bruce has all the angst, Bruce is a stubborn ass in this, But he still cares, Clark is one smart and patient cookie, Clark just wants to get to know Batman better, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Post Justice League feels, Prompt Fic, They just got off to a bad start, clark feels, eventually, he just hides it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 12:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17807942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: This is a prompt request fromGoddess_of_Lies: "Can you do the beginning of Clark and Bruce's friendship? Like in the new DCAU movies, the league seems... not close, and Clark and Bruce barely seem to know each other at all."So this is my take on the beginning of the wonderful, world-changing friendship between Bruce and Clark.





	I Can Hear Your Heartbeat (Can You Hear Mine?)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Goddess_of_Lies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess_of_Lies/gifts).



> “The greatest gift of life is friendship, and I have received it.”  
> ―Hubert H. Humphrey

The first month after his resurrection is... busy. First there is Steppenwolf and his three mother boxes. Then there is helping Lois move out of their (used-to-be) shared apartment. There is sitting back and taking stock of his life (as Superman) and his not-life (as the former Clark Kent). Then there is the battery of tests that Batman, Bruce, runs on him. To make sure he is healthy (not a freak imposter, a _monster_ ). To make sure his powers are reliable (to make sure the team can depend on him). To make sure he is safe (that he won’t freak out, that he doesn’t need _professional help_ ). 

During this time, Bruce is stiff, almost robotic. Gone is the blistery attitude of the bat, all hard edges, snarl, and darkness. Gone is the charm, light and breezy (distracting) of Bruce Wayne. Whittle away the two and, apparently, one was left with Bruce. Or at least, this version of him. This Bruce is quiet, quick darting glances (never quite meeting Clark’s eyes), questioning brows (is this okay? Do you mind if I am in the same room as you? _Can you forgive me?_ ) and small quirks of the lips. _If he were a dog_ , Clark thinks, _Bruce would have his tail tucked between his legs_. Clark frowns at the thought. This was not what he had wanted. But then, had Clark really gotten anything that he had wanted? 

Batman is also hurt. Injured, once again, by Superman’s own hand, though he tries not to show it. But it is evident at his almost-non-existent winces, the stiff posturing of his body, the way his movement is ever-so-slightly restricted. At this, Clark does wince. But the first time he really gets to see him and reflect fully on what Superman has done is after Steppenwolf. Of course, Batman catches him staring. Bruce scowls, looking away. 

“Tell me, do you bleed?” he’d asked all those months ago. Now Clark thinks he was _really_ asking if Superman felt pain. And yes, in that sense, Clark _does_ bleed (and as he’s come to learn painfully, he also bleeds in the ordinary sense). Clark doesn’t press it when Bruce walks away. But he stares after him, and can’t help but shudder. Those are _his_ hands, bruised onto Bruce’s throat. That is _his_ work, stamped into Bruce’s tightly-held shoulder. That is the _mark_ of Superman on his back. And now, after returning, after seeing how people react, seeing _his_ handiwork, maybe Clark _gets_ what Batman was concerned about a little more. Power is… powerful. Absolute power, absolutely so. He shudders, hearing an echo of Luthor’s voice laugh in his head. 

So because of this, he bears the frankly astounding number of tests with (fairly) good grace. He suspects that Bruce is concerned irrationally (or maybe not-so-much-so [though hopefully this is _not_ the case]) about Clark’s resurrection suddenly failing. About Clark dropping abruptly, a cold, pale body once again. Bruce never says these things, barely speaks more to Clark than simple instructions or questions: stand there, hold this, move that, how do you feel, does this hurt, do you feel that, do you bleed, _do you bleed, do you bleed…_ But Clark gets the sense that he is worried. At least, if not about _Clark_ , then about the idea of him, the potential impact on the team. 

Towards the end of the first month, Bruce has him do an honest-to-god stress test. With an oxygen mask, tread mill, electrodes, heart monitor, everything. He has Clark do it twice, in fact, both times in the cave. Once with a UV lamp, the other time without. He tosses a pair of running shorts at Clark and tells him to get changed, then leaves. When Clark sees the size of the shorts, he flushes. Maybe that’s why Bruce left, so he doesn’t have a chance to argue with him. 

Clark changes, displeased. He can’t feel cold, but he can sense how chilly the cave is. He avoids looking down at his (too-exposed) chest, and likewise avoids the desire to cross his arms. But even without looking, Clark knows (from staring too-many-hours in the mirror self-consciously, horrified) what he’ll find there: a knotted, snarling chunk of angry scar tissue over his heart. It looks as if someone took a drunken chisel to the David. Clark didn’t know he was vain. After a bit, Bruce returns and carefully avoids looking at Clark. He’s dragging the lamp and the electrode cords. He sets them on the desk and returns with the heart monitor. As he attaches the electrodes, he keeps his eyes, somehow, away from the scar on Clark’s chest. Maybe it bothers him as much as it does Clark. Clark frowns. Bruce pats the last of the electrodes into place, touch warm and rough. He turns away to flick on the monitor. It beeps to life, startling Clark a little. Bruce spares him a brief gaze and asks, “Does this seem like your baseline?” 

Clark takes a moment to breathe, finally giving into his desire to cross his arms over his (hideous) chest. The peaks and valleys of the monitor relax some. “Yes,” he answers finally. Bruce nods, writing something down. 

“You can start any time,” he says, sitting in his rolling chair, which he’s placed next to the monitor by his desk. Clark nods, slipping on the oxygen mask. 

He loses himself in the beat of running. One, two, one two, breathe, one, two, one two, breathe, and almost doesn’t notice Bruce trying to get his attention. He looks tired, and Clark blinks. It feels odd, not to be moving. “How do you feel?” Bruce asks clinically. Clark pauses. Assesses. 

“Fine,” he begins. 

“Tired?” Bruce asks. 

“No… not really,” Clark answers awkwardly. He notes Bruce’s micro-grimace. 

After scribbling something else down on his notepad, Bruce looks up assessingly, and asks, “Ready to go again?” 

Clark shrugs. “Sure. If you are.” 

Bruce turns and flicks on the UV lamp. “Starting in three, two, one…” 

This time, Clark keeps track of the time by listening to the subtle ticks of the built-in clock on the computer. Only 45 minutes go by before Bruce stops him. He repeats the same questions as before, but this time with a definite, small, lasting-frown on his face. Clark tries not to, but since Bruce would never open up and tell him what’s wrong, Clark listens. Bruce's heartbeat is slow in a world of sprinters. It's what makes it so noticeable when he's upset or excited about something. 

Clark knows he can control it, his heart beat. At least, as much as anyone (human) can. But he never lets on that he knows that Bruce can, when he does it, because (to say the least) Bruce is a private man. And him knowing that Clark knows that Bruce can (and does) control his heart around Superman would spell the death of... whatever their relationship is. Is, maybe, beginning to be. Not friends, _not_ enemies (anymore, he hopes), but not strangers either. Acquaintances then, maybe. _But can one truly only be an acquaintance with someone, after being resurrected by them?_ Whatever they are, it is also not what they could (maybe someday) be. Though that isn't to say Clark trusts Bruce completely just right now. But resurrecting him, saving Ma, and getting the farm back certainly does help. 

Right now, the beat is slightly elevated, indicating stress, maybe (probably) or tension of some sort. “What is it?” he asks. And Bruce’s heart goes into that steady, regulated tempo, which tells Clark something is wrong, that there is a façade up. 

“Nothing, Clark. There’s nothing wrong,” Bruce says, slight growl in his tone. Clark wonders how little sleep he’s running on. 

“But,” he presses. 

Bruce sighs. “‘But,’” he continues, “that’s what worries me. There’s nothing, no indicator that you—” he cuts off awkwardly. ‘That you were dead. That you died,’ Clark supplies, grimacing slightly. Bruce catches it, and for a moment, his heartrate spikes. But then it mellows out into background noise again. Hm. “The lack of evidence is concerning,” he tries again. Pauses. “I… I would like you to wear a heartrate monitor.” 

Okay, that had not been what Clark was expecting. He blinks. And his surprise shows in the uptick on the monitor’s screen. Bruce frowns, displeased. He swallows, starts to mutter something under his breath, and cuts himself off. Because Clark is here. Clark frowns, not quite sure what to feel about this. 

“You don’t have to… I’ll understand, if you don’t want to,” Bruce says, tone low. He avoids Clark’s eyes. Clark barely avoids sighing. Yeah, there was a lot of bad stuff between them (a good share of it Batman’s fault) but since then… he’d done nothing but apologize (in one way or another) to Clark. And Clark was frankly a little sick of seeing the other man debase himself like this (Clark was never the type of person to crave attention, or reverence). 

“If you think it’s necessary, I will,” Clark says quietly. 

Bruce looks up sharply, frowning for a second. But soon his features smooth, waves over sand. “Okay. Come with me,” he says, walking away. Clark tears off the electrodes, wincing slightly at the metallic shriek of the machine. He pads after Bruce, who is in no hurry to wait for him. To be fair, Clark will definitely be able to catch up. 

Bruce, it turns out, has wandered to the armory. Clark tries not to let his eyes trip on the glass case, deliberately does not let his gaze linger. Instead, he focuses on Bruce’s back, and takes in the small grunt of pain he lets out as he rummages through a metal drawer with a wince. Somehow Bruce notices. “Stop that,” he murmurs sharply, still searching for something. Finally, he withdraws his hand, holding what looks like an incomplete chest-plate of armor. 

Bruce strides across the space again, this time to his tech lab, and pulls a pair of goggles on. With practiced ease, he starts slicing apart electronics. With a jolt, Clark realizes that what he’s retrieving is going to be the heart monitor Clark will wear. A sharp frown pulls on his face, and Clark feels… emotions at the thought of Bruce sacrificing his armor for the superpowered (not invincible) alien. Bruce, as already proven, somehow has a knack for dissecting Clark’s thoughts. “I wasn’t going to use this chest-plate anyway, it failed too many structural tests,” he answers. 

“Oh,” Clark says. Bruce shoves the goggles atop his head and comes back with a small, square item. He holds it up to Clark’s chest, and his warm hands are a bit of a sensory shock. Clark jolts, and realizes that he’s still dressed in nothing but a pair of running shorts. Bruce immediately withdraws, tensing slightly. His breath quivers and the heartrate’s racing— adrenaline-fueled. 

“Sorry,” Bruce says roughly, after a moment. “I need to measure this. Can I—” 

“Sure. Go ahead,” Clark interjects, cursing his own stupidity. 

Bruce comes forward, piece of chalk in hand. He stands right in front of Clark, who holds razor still. This close, he can hear Bruce’s heart racing; curiously, Clark wonders if Bruce even notices, the way he’s absorbed in his measurements. But _Clark_ notices, and frowns. He knows that rhythm: apprehension, if not fear. But the important question with Bruce is: of what? Is he still afraid of Clark, or is it something else? A question breaks him from his reverie: “Do you mind if I,” Bruce asks, holding up the chalk absently. 

Clark snorts. “Go right ahead.” Bruce nods. He traces a quick outline of the device on the center of Clark’s chest, right over the scar. His actions don’t hesitate, but Clark still notes the lighting-fast flash of something cross over Bruce’s face. 

Finally, he withdraws. “I’ll have this to you within the week. You can go now, Clark,” Bruce says. 

“Thanks, Bruce,” Clark says, noting the way Bruce’s eyes flicker. And there’s _definitely_ something there. Clark feels a bit of apprehension crawl through his spine and willfully squashes the feeling. No, there would be none of that. There could be none of that; that is what had lead to the _bad things_ happening before. Now Bruce is staring. 

To distract, and also because he needs to know, Clark asks, “Er. Do you want the shorts back?” 

Bruce snorts. “No, keep them if you want. I can afford to buy another pair.” Clark chuckles. 

“Okay then. Guess I’ll be going… See you later, Bruce,” Clark says, turning towards the locker room. That was where he’d left his clothes. 

Bruce mutters, “Bye” back before he turns to his recently-collected data, entering things into the computer. Clark changes and flies out the back door. 

Later that night, he gets a text from an unknown number: “Do you want your job back?” 

Heart pounding, Clark responds: “Yes” and saves the number as ‘Bruce’ in his phone. 

**~_~**

Sure enough, a week later there is a small, non-descript package waiting outside Clark’s door. He opens it and sees its return address is listed as being that of a book shop. He snorts, then goes inside to open the package. The device, it is clear to see, has had some changes made to it. The exterior casing has been removed and sanded down, then coated with a clear polymer material to make it smooth. It also has elastic straps, which makes it look like a giant x. But in spite of his efforts, Clark can’t figure out how to turn it on. Finally, he texts Bruce. 

“Hey, I got the thing in the mail today. Thanks. How do I operate it?” he asks. 

Forty minutes later, Bruce replies, “You’re welcome. Should be attuned to your base-line already. Put it on and it’ll self-activate. Tap twice to turn off.” Clark’s brows arch in surprise, and he once again marvels at the brilliance of the bat. 

“Thanks!” he replies quickly. He slides the thing on and tosses on a work shirt, spinning in the mirror. He whistles, impressed. Through the shirt, it’s impossible to tell he’s wearing anything extra. The suit will be another matter, but he’ll figure that out when he gets to it. 

Suddenly, his phone beeps. It’s Bruce. “Receiving data,” is all he says. Clark sends him a thumbs up emoji and imagines Bruce rolling his eyes. 

**~_~**

It’s not for another month that Clark sees Bruce again in person. And it’s by accident when he does. It has been a long day, and Clark needs a shower (he’d had to fight a villain, and it had spilled over into the dump). Thankfully, the monitor seems to be undamaged and Clark is, once more, impressed by Bruce’s ingenuity. He hadn’t asked before if the device is waterproof, and so double-taps it to shut it off. He sets it on his bedside table absently. He feels a short pang of doubt and wonders if he should let Bruce know he’s okay. Clark had done it every other time he’d shut off the device, and so assumes that Bruce will recognize what he’s done this time. It turns out that that is a mistake. 

It is barely dark when Clark walks out of his shower, whistling absently. At first, he doesn’t notice the tensely-frozen shadow halfway into his apartment. But when he does, doing what would in other situations be a comical double-take, he jumps. Thankfully, the towel stays in place. “Br— Batman!” he exclaims, surprised. Somehow, Bruce stills further. 

“Wh-what are you doing here?” Clark asks. And he hears, through the suit’s dampener, Bruce’s heartrate pick up (it sounds like an echo one hears through a seashell). 

“I was… concerned,” he states hesitantly. And it clicks. Clark hadn’t told him he’d be turning off the device. Gosh, it must have looked like he’d flat-lined or something. 

“Oh! _Oh_ , the— the thing,” Clark says eloquently, gesticulating with one hand. Bruce nods, once, heart still thrumming. 

“Obviously, I was mistaken. Sorry for the intrusion,” he says stiffly. Awkwardly, Clark shuffles past and finishes closing the window. Bruce tenses again, and takes a step back. 

“Let me get dressed, and we can continue this conversation,” Clark says diplomatically. Bruce looks like he’s indecisive. Clark thinks that’s good enough and goes to change. When he comes back, Bruce is gone. 

Later, when he checks his phone, he sees the two text messages he’d missed while in the shower. One is a terse, “A little warning next time” and, ten minutes later, a decidedly not-panicked, “Please respond.” 40 minutes later, there is a missed call. Clark winces, imagining how Batman must have forced himself to wait impatiently, probably pacing, until ‘too much time’ had passed. He also winces because he had not realized that Bruce was paying that close of attention. 

After this, he texts Bruce every time he takes the device off. Amusingly, Bruce turns his ‘read receipts’ on in response. One night, he texts, “Good night,” along with his notice and Bruce actually replies: “Sleep well.” Clark smiles. 

**~_~**

A few weeks after the incident, Bruce is still acting surly around him. The team, at their bi-monthly meeting, notices. Barry (not as subtly as he thinks he’s being) shoots troubled looks between the two of them. Arthur smirks, like he’s amused. Diana gives him a questioning look. Afterwards, she pulls him aside. 

“I thought you two had resolved your… disagreements,” she says. Clark barely keeps from snorting. _That was one way to put it._

“We have,” he says firmly, “but I may have embarrassed Bruce recently. By accident, of course.” Diana raises an eyebrow: ‘tell me.’ 

“Since I’ve been… back, I’ve been wearing a heart monitor,” he answers, gesturing to the small, barely noticeable bump in his uniform. Diana’s eyes widen. “Bruce was concerned about some things and asked if he could monitor me.” 

Diana’s apparent shock balloons and she opens her mouth. She shuts it again, before finally asking, “And what is he monitoring you for?” 

Clark grimaces. “He wanted to make sure I was healthy, I think.” Diana gets a closed-off, knowing look, which she clears from her face. 

“I suppose that makes sense. It was Bruce’s idea to bring you back after all, and he can get… intense about things that are important to him,” Diana muses. 

Clark’s eyes bug out and he nearly chokes on air. He doesn’t even want to think about what the monitor’s doing at the moment. “‘Important to him?’” Clark questions. Diana gives him another look, this one quelling. 

“Yes,” she says simply, “of course you are, Superman. You think he would risk my wrath, his life, for some insignificant thing? You matter to him, in some way.” Clark blinks. Well, he hadn’t thought about that before. 

**~_~**

Another month passes before he’s invited to the cave again, this time without a reason given. Clark feels a little hesitant, at first, without knowing why. But then he realizes it’s because he’s still not sure what to do about Diana’s jaw-dropping proclamation. He doesn’t know what to do with the information that he _matters_ to Bruce. To Batman. He’d seen what happened when something displeased or frightened Batman, and to imagine that the man approached things that _mattered_ to him with any less intensity was, frankly, inconceivable. 

When he arrives, Bruce is seated at the computer, working on a report of some kind. Clark clears his throat and Bruce saves his work before spinning around. “Superman,” he says in the same cool tone as ever. 

Clark smiles. “Bruce,” he says. It gets a quirk of Bruce’s eyebrow. Clark has to keep himself from grinning. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, after all. 

“I called you here to let you know that you don’t have to put up with my interfering any longer,” Bruce says in an obviously self-deprecating way. Clark frowns. Bruce, oblivious, continues: “I’ve gathered enough data that it’s safe to say that you aren’t going to be dropping dead anytime soon.” 

Clark smiles. “Well, that’s a relief,” he says unthinkingly. Bruce flinches minutely, heart stuttering one beat. Clark frowns. He’d thought they were over that. 

Bruce recovers, pressing on, “You can stop wearing the monitor, and I’ve disconnected all the cave’s sensors from it, in case you want to keep it. I won’t meddle with you further, Superman.” He turns back to the computer. 

Clark, feeling oddly disappointed somehow, says, “Ok. Thank you.” Clark goes to leave, but Bruce holds up a hand. Clark stops. 

“I’m almost finished with the paperwork for… your life. We’ll have to come up with a hell of a good story, but I think it’s possible to get Clark Kent back from the dead.” Clark’s jaw drops for a second and Bruce turns around at the silence. He looks… he actually looks embarrassed, by the gratefulness on Clark’s face… and that’s. That’s complicated. 

“ _Thank you_ , Bruce. I know that’s— just. Thank you,” Clark manages to stammer out, feeling overwhelmed by appreciation and excitement and dozens of other emotions that flicker though him. 

“Just making sure that the team will be okay,” Bruce says coolly, professionally, “and your mental health is part of that.” But he doesn’t fool Clark. Clark, who can hear his heart beating almost faster than a hummingbird’s. 

“Right. Well, still, thank you,” Clark says sincerely, firmly, taking off before Bruce can offer any more denials. 

**~_~**

Clark doesn’t realize how much he had become used to contacting Bruce on the regular until he can’t anymore. Clark has to stop himself three times from texting something inane to the Batman, just to read his reaction. He hadn’t realized how much of an excuse the heart monitor had given him. He sighs, frustrated. _This would never do_. But despite the fact that he’s decided he wants to do something, Clark can’t decide on what. Bruce texts him that he has the documents ready, and to swing by sometime next week. 

When he comes by the manor, Bruce has a frankly alarming stack of paperwork for Clark to sign. They sit for about an hour, deciding on a plausible story. Alfred comes by with coffee and sandwiches. After they’ve decided on a cover, and it’s time for Clark to go, Clark knows what he wants to do. He asks Bruce if he would like to go out for coffee, and maybe lunch, sometime soonish. 

Bruce hands him the paperwork silently. Then, looking a little puzzled, he says, “Yes.” 

**~_~**

It has been three weeks since Clark has been back. He hadn’t gotten any work done, really, the first week. His colleagues had all been too overwhelmed. Even Perry. The second week had been readjusting, catching up on the current events he’d missed. Now, he was beginning to be allowed out by himself again. And it was great. Clark thinks it’s about time he makes Bruce’s standing invitation to lunch a real thing. He texts Bruce. 

**~_~**

Clark chooses a little diner on the corner of 43rd and River Park called _Pop’s American Cuisine_. It’s the place he brings most of his interview subjects to, and a place he frequents himself quite often. It’s nearby the Daily Planet building too. He arrives half an hour early, sliding his messenger bag onto the seat besides him. Then Clark orders two coffees (one black, for Bruce, two creams and three sugars for him) and takes out his notepad and recorder. The staff know to leave him alone if he’s working. His waitress is Dinah today, and she smiles at Clark. 

“Clark honey! How are ‘ya? I haven’t seen you here in a while,” she says warmly. A pang goes through Clark’s chest. But he forces himself to smile. 

“Well you know how it is, Dinah, I’ve just been busy!” he replies easily. She nods, glancing at his equipment. 

“Got an interview?” she asks. 

Clark nods, glancing at his watch. “Yeah. He should be here any time now.” 

“Ordering food, or is it just coffee today?” Dinah asks. 

“Both, I think,” Clark says. Dinah nods. 

“I’ll get’cha’ll menus,” she says, wandering off. 

As Clark’s distracted by the conversation, he gets quite surprised when someone thumps down in the booth seat across from him. Clark is about to reprimand this man— with a sleazy 70’s porno moustache, tracksuit, and sunglasses when he sees the familiar smirk. Clark shuts his mouth, but can’t help but glare a little. _Of course Bruce would come in a disguise_ , he thinks, barely suppressing an eye roll. 

He sticks his hand across the table and smiles openly. “Hello, Mr.?” 

Bruce plays along, his handshake warm, rough, and firm. “Malone. Nice ‘ta meet’cha,” he says, accent… different. After a moment, Clark places it: East Gotham. 

Dinah comes back with the menus, and offers Bruce a small smile, one he returns with extra sleaze. Clark almost chokes on his coffee. 

“Let me know when you’re ready to order,” she says kindly. 

Bruce glances at Clark and lazily points a thumb at him. “I’ll have whatever he’s havin’,” Bruce says. Dinah turns to Clark. 

“Uh, I’ll have the omelet special with a side of bacon and toast,” Clark orders quickly. Dinah writes it down on her pad. 

“Coffee?” she asks, glancing down at Bruce’s already-empty mug. 

“Would it be a problem to get a pot, dear?” Bruce asks smarmily. Dinah smiles again, eyes a bit tighter. 

“No, we do that for Clark here all the time. Gimme just a second to go place your orders,” she says, walking off again. 

Once she’s gone, Bruce relaxes. Until Clark moves his recorder to the center of the table and pulls out a pen to place on his notepad. Clark notes the tenseness of his shoulders, the slight increase in his pulse. “Just for appearance’s sake,” Clark says quietly, “they know to leave me alone if I’m on the job. We should have privacy here.” Bruce looks up at him, blue eyes considering, before he nods once and drops the accent. 

“Fine,” he says coolly. 

Dinah returns with the coffee pot, which Bruce looks at hungrily, and tells them their food should be out in fifteen minutes. Clark thanks her. 

Once she’s gone again, Bruce turns to Clark, all business. “So,” he asks, “why’d you want to meet here? Something wrong?” Clark swallows. 

“No, actually. Things are going well. I just wanted… to have lunch,” Clark says hesitantly. Bruce gives him a look. 

“Really,” Clark insists. Bruce looks a little unsure. 

After a moment of hesitation, he asks, “Why with me?” and Clark doesn’t miss the slightly pessimistic tone, or emphasis on ‘me’ there. He frowns. Bruce is watching him, hands clenched under the table. 

“Well,” he sighs, “we got off to a bad start.” Bruce snorts. Clark ignores him, continuing, “You’ve done a lot for me, Br— Mr. Malone. I figure if we’re going to be working together, we should at least get to know each other a little.” 

Bruce’s mouth does a strange twisty motion before settling back into neutral. Unreadable. Clark frowns for a brief second before relaxing his face. Bruce isn’t as open a person as he is, Clark recognizes. He’s already pushed enough by asking for this. Bruce takes a big drink of coffee and pours himself more before answering quietly, but firmly, “Don’t you already know enough about me?” 

Now Clark does frown, and it doesn’t escape Bruce’s notice. He looks… if not exactly pleased with himself, like he expected it, at the least. Clark verbally backtracks, “B. Tabloids aren’t exactly an… accurate source of information. I should know.” It works. Bruce snorts, offering an eyeroll. 

But he still says, “I wasn’t talking about that, Kent.” Clark’s eyes go wide for a second, and Bruce’s pulse races. For a while. _Oh. Oh… that’s what he meant. He thought Clark knew Batman already… and wouldn’t (didn’t, shouldn’t) want to know more. To get closer to him_. And that made Clark’s heart ache, that Bruce still thought of himself as flawed. Perpetually, eternally, broken, compared to Clark. Compared to Superman. 

“No, I _don’t_ know you,” he says a little sharply, pinning Bruce with a firm stare. Firm enough, apparently, that Bruce has to look away first, swallowing. Clark had surprised him. Good. Bruce looks out the window. Clark lets him think, plan a verbal escape. He waits. Bruce may be slippery with words, but Clark’s a reporter. It’s his job to wipe up spills. 

But, surprisingly, all Bruce says is, “Why?” 

Clark opens his mouth to answer but Dinah comes by with their food. Clark thanks her, and turns back to Bruce, who’s already eating. Their conversation will have to wait. 

**~_~**

After they’re done with their meal, Clark orders them each a slice of apple pie. It’s the best in Metropolis (and he’s searched enough to confirm). He wants to continue their earlier conversation, and the pie gives him an excuse to. Bruce makes a face at the mention of pie, but still takes an appreciative bite when it arrives. Clark barely stops himself from smirking, and makes a mental note to have Ma bake him one of _her_ apple pies. “You wanted to know why,” Clark says as Bruce’s mouth is still full. Bruce glares at him, not appreciating the trick. Clark just smiles knowingly back. 

“I said it before, and I’ll say it again. I don’t know you, B. I meant it when I said we got off on the wrong foot. Clearly, there’s more to you than angst and stubbornness. And I think you’re well aware now that I’m not an inhuman monster,” Clark continues hurriedly. Bruce swallows, and his eyes drop at Clark’s last word. He actually looks… ashamed for a moment. Clark pauses, derailed. But he forces himself to continue while Bruce is still willing to listen, “I think we’re going to be working together with some frequency from here on out, and I thought we should have the chance to… start over.” He tries to meet Bruce’s eyes. 

Bruce avoids him and takes another sip of coffee. His heartrate’s slightly elevated, but Clark’s not sure how much of that is from… emotion, or how much is from the caffeine (he’s had a lot of it). Finally, though, Bruce looks up. And all Clark can see in his eyes is incomprehension and hurt. He nearly reaches a hand across the table but stops himself. That wouldn’t help. 

Bruce huffs, before answering, a bit of a growl in his voice, “I don’t— how can…” he sighs, runs one frustrated hand through his hair, “You should stay away from me, Clark. Just because we’re working together doesn’t mean we have to spend time together. I… what I did is inexcusable. But you don’t have to worry, I’m not, and never will be again, gunning for you.” He offers a bitter smile. 

Clark opens his mouth to object, but Bruce slips out of the booth, leaving a couple 50s and a half-eaten slice of pie behind. Clark frowns. He finishes his pie, thinking. This is going to be more difficult than he thought. 

**~_~**

Clark is drowning. He chokes out another breath, and it feels _thick_ , like his chest has caved in (like he’s swallowing dirt). His vision spins and blurs, colors and shapes and light streaming together into one screaming canvas that makes the jackhammers in Clark’s head worse. He heaves, but nothing comes up. His throat feels raspy, like he’s been screaming. His eyes are going to melt. Lex Luthor stands over him, smirking triumphantly. _He has to get up. He has to get up. He has to fight. He can’t die again_. “Hello, Superman,” Luthor says casually, eyes glittering darkly, “it’s been a while.” Clark stumbles to his feet and tries to form a fist. 

He takes a weak swing at Luthor, because of _fucking_ course it’s Luthor, and promptly falls over. He hits his chin with a smack that clanks his teeth together and lets out a low whine. Luthor chuckles from somewhere over him. “Well, I guess it’s time to say goodbye again. Hope it sticks this time,” Luthor says, raising his hands. Clark flinches, and tries to roll out of the way but he can’t. _I’m sorry Ma_ , he thinks sourly, flinching, _I’m sorry—_

The window shatters inward, a million million tiny sharp crystals scatter across the floor. Distantly, through the larger pain, Clark feels a few cut him. Like an avenging angel (or, more accurately, _demon_ ) Batman flies through the window, the moonlight shining oddly on his blacker-than-death-armor, literally snarling. He doesn’t sound human. Clark can’t hear his heartbeat right now, but he imagines it to be louder than the ocean, more devastating that the explosion of Krypton. Batman’s red-flushed (angry) face spares Clark a glance before he’s off, tearing across the room so fast that he hits the corner of the door when he turns to follow Luthor. It does not stop him. There is a sudden touch on his shoulder. Clark flinches. It is Diana. She looks down on him with concern. 

“Can I move you?” Diana asks hurriedly. 

“Un hu,” Clark slurs distantly, and then Diana’s form fades, the room fades, and Clark can only hear the sound of something breaking on the building, feel the wind of the night sky on his feverish face, and then nothing. 

**~_~**

Clark jerks awake suddenly, feeling much better than before. His eyes rapidly rove over his surroundings, and he relaxes back against the comfortable pillows when he realizes that he’s in the cave. A light snore startles him again. He looks down. Bruce is sitting on his black desk chair, half in the suit, draped over the foot of Clark’s bed. As Clark observes, Bruce frowns a little, and adjusts. Clark listens: his heartrate is low, slow, steady; the sound of an icy mid-winter river. 

Clark stretches, careful not to disturb Bruce. He looks down and realizes that he’s no longer in the suit, but a pair of sweatpants and tank top (both more than likely Bruce’s). An almost-silent throat clearing has him jerking his gaze up. Diana is at his side, a bowl of something, and a glass of water, in her hand. Gratefully, Clark takes them. Diana drags over a chair from Bruce’s workbench. “What happened?” he asks, hushed. 

As he eats, Diana tells him. Luthor had escaped. Bruce called together the league as soon as he’d heard. He ran ahead to Metropolis, as other than Cyborg, Batman was the closest. They tried to get ahold of Clark (but he’d been out on patrol already) and had not gotten a response. Flash was busy clearing people from the site, Cyborg trying to hack Luthor’s computer systems in case he’d used those for any of his plans. Bruce had reached Superman first, and Diana had too a bit later. Bruce had taken down Luthor. Luthor was now in the prison hospital with a broken arm, concussion, and two cracked ribs. _Well it will keep him busy for a while at least_ , Clark thinks viciously. Despite himself, Clark flinches a little this vindictive thought. Diana notices, but does not comment. 

“Thank you,” Clark says, a bit less quietly. It does not seem like Bruce will wake anytime soon. 

Diana smiles, though her eyes are still tense. “It is nothing you would not do for us,” she says simply. 

After another moment of silence, Clark asks, “Can I have another glass of water?” 

Diana nods. “Of course.” She takes his empty glass and retreats. Just a minute or two after her departure, Bruce snaps awake with a grunt. He sits up, wincing, and his hand goes half to his side before he looks up and sees that Clark is awake. He freezes for a second, blinks, and seems to reset. 

“You’re up,” he says neutrally. As if he’d been unconcerned. Clark barely keeps from rolling his eyes. This man, really, he was impossible sometimes. 

“And _you’re_ hurt,” he accuses. Bruce opens his mouth to argue, but Diana has appeared behind him. 

“What’s this about injuries?” she asks. 

Bruce jumps a bit, and doubles over, heart racing. “Shit,” he hisses. Diana sets Clark’s water down on the table next to him absently, and starts forward. 

Bruce straightens up, determined look on his face. But Clark can still hear his heart race. “It’s nothing,” he says firmly. Now Diana looks angry. 

“That is most certainly not nothing, Bruce,” she says sharply, “now let me help you.” 

“I’m fine,” Bruce snarls, trying to retreat. 

“Clark,” Diana asks. Clark nods. He leans forward and snatches Bruce’s wrist. Bruce goes to snarl at him, but swallows when he sees Clark’s face. 

“Fine,” he hisses, shooting a glare at Clark. Clark doesn’t take it personally. 

Bruce goes to shower and comes back with damp, scattered hair. He’s wearing a similar outfit to Clark’s. Diana drags him over to the med bay, which is just within Clark’s sight. Diana removes the disturbingly-large bandage on Bruce’s side and hisses. It is a large gash, which still leaks blood as she strips the bandage away. Bruce flinches at even her lightest touch and Clark hears his hummingbird’s heartbeat. Diana frowns. “Did you at least clean this, Batman. Or were you waiting for it to get infected?” 

Bruce growls, and Clark shivers, for a moment. Bruce notices somehow, and shoots him a look before continuing slightly more gently, “Of course. I’m not stupid, Diana.” 

Diana mutters, “That is debatable. Now hold still while I stich this.” 

Muttering something so low that Clark struggles to hear it, Bruce complies. 

**~_~**

Forty-five minutes later, Bruce is freshly stitched up. Alfred brings everyone coffee and gives Bruce and Diana sandwiches. When he sees Bruce’s fresh stitches, he sighs, and turns to Diana. “Thank you, Ms. Prince. Have you given him anything for the pain yet?” Bruce growls, but Alfred silences him with one glance. If Clark weren’t so terrified of the butler himself, he might have laughed. 

“No,” Diana says. 

Alfred nods. “May I suggest two Vicodin pills.” Bruce makes an objecting sound, but Alfred wheels on him. “There shall be _no_ arguing about this, Master Bruce” and stalks off. Clark realizes: he’s worried. Diana gives Bruce two pills and he swallows them dry, looking furious. Then he stands, spares a glance at Clark, and goes to the computer. Diana follows, looking worried. 

Bruce snaps, “I’m not going to re-injure myself writing a mission report, Diana.” He’s right, and there’s nothing she can do about it, is what the frown on Wonder Woman’s face says. She comes to sit by Clark and starts a conversation with him. Half an hour passes, and Clark is laughing at one of Diana’s dry, on-point observations when a soft sighing sound interrupts them. Clark and Diana glance over at the same time and see Bruce, fast asleep at his desk. 

Sighing, and muttering something about “child. Why is he always such a child?” Diana goes to the desk and scoops Bruce up. She gives Clark a look that is both amused and angry. “Would you excuse me a moment, Clark?” she asks. 

Clark chuckles. “Sure, Diana.” 

**~_~**

Bruce avoids them both, or at least, talks to them using as few words as he can after that incident. Despite his apparent recalcitrance, Clark still feels Batman’s heated, worried gaze following him around when he visits the cave, and it’s almost like he’s the one with x-ray vision. _Diana had been right indeed_ , Clark thinks. Whatever this was… it wasn’t neutral. And Clark half wants to laugh, and half wants to cry from the sudden intensity of the Bat. Had he been like this when he’d decided to kill Clark? _God, if only they’d both been less stubborn…_ Clark cuts that thought off, recognizing it as a useless, self-pitying ‘what if.’ It doesn’t matter what might have happened, because what _had_ happened is what happened. He died. But now he’s back. 

Bruce’s concern is… sweet, in a slightly-creepy kind of way, but he doesn’t call Bruce on it (though he knows _that_ is the only sure way to get him to stop). Casually, Clark starts wearing the heart monitor again for about a week after the fight with Luthor. Bruce makes no acknowledgement of it, but by the time the next league meeting comes around, Clark has stopped noticing a pair of crystalline blue eyes boring into his back every time he’s around Batman. If Bruce is still worried, it is hidden now, even from Clark. 

**~_~**

“Superman,” Diana’s call is firm, and tense, but forcibly calm. Not worried-sounding. Not panicked. Though she looks it. 

Clark is out of Metropolis and in the cave in three minutes. “What is it?” he asks, hovering. Diana’s gaze deepens. 

“We can’t find Batman,” she says. Clark glances sideways, and yes, there is Alfred, looking intently at the monitor. 

“Tell me what I need to know,” he says firmly. Diana nods professionally and looks to Alfred. The butler sighs, looking older than Clark has ever seen him look. 

“Have you heard of the Scarecrow, Superman?” Clark’s stomach lurches. Dread bubbles up through his being. Yeah, he’s heard of Scarecrow. 

“Yes,” Clark says, unable to hide his distaste. 

Alfred nods sharply, meeting his gaze unwaveringly. “Then I expect you’ll be prepared for what Batman’s state of mind will be when you find him. He last checked in by the docks. That was an hour ago. Now go,” he says tersely, turning back to the monitor. Clark hears: “Batman, if you can hear me, we are sending Superman out. Hold on.” 

**~_~**

Clark rises up into the air over the docks of Gotham Bay. He swallows, and forces himself to think calmly. Panicking now won’t help Batman. He scans the surrounding area, glad that he’s been familiarized with Bruce’s heartbeat for so long. After another quick scan, Clark confirms: Bruce isn’t here. He flies on. 

Clark is over the East End when he finally hears it. Except he almost doesn’t notice it, with how this normally-steady heart is tripping over itself with fear. He can smell the adrenaline, and the sweat even hovering twenty feet over the building. He has to give Batman credit because even in this state, he’s managed to hide himself effectively. Quietly, he comms. Diana and Alfred. “I’ve found him,” he says softly, “now what?” 

He hears Alfred murmur to Diana, who repeats for him: “Approach him. Slowly. Don’t let him run. Once you’ve calmed him down as much as you can, grab him. And Superman, don’t listen to him.” On that ominous note, the comms. go dead. Clark needs all the focus he can get. 

He silently touches down on the roof, and slowly, slowly, as if he’s a geological force, approaches where Batman is half-sprawled, half-crouched against the corner of the roof vent. “Batman,” he calls softly but clearly. Bruce’s head jerks up, and the quick _huff-huff_ of his nearly hyperventilating breath picks up. His heart is going so fast Clark almost feels sick, the beats blending into one thrumming _thumpthumpthumpthump_. If Bruce were a lesser man, Clark would be rushing him to the hospital for a heart attack. 

The smell of adrenaline increases. “Su-per man,” Bruce gasps, then jerks away, hitting the vent with a large, painful sounding thump. Of course, it rattles the vent, and Bruce lets out a startled gasp. Clark takes another step forward in alarm. Bruce startles. 

“Not real,” he growls at himself, and Clark can hear him firmly blink his eyes shut. 

“Batman, I’m gonna get closer, alright? I’m not going to hurt you,” Clark says soothingly, taking another few steps forward. Bruce watches warily, and then startles, as if he realizes how close Superman is. He tries to stand but falls. 

“NO!” Bruce shouts, actually shaking. Shaking. Clark has _never_ seen him shake, not even when he was facing down Superman, thinking that Clark wanted to kill him. Not even against Doomsday. But he’s shivering, the fear smell so strong that Clark’s heart wants to pick up the pace and join it. 

“Batman,” Clark says again, leaning forward. At some point he’d dropped onto his knees. “I am not going to hurt you.” 

“NO,” Bruce gasps, almost sobs, “Not real… Crane’s… toxin. Figment. You’re d-dead.” And on that word, he flinches, suddenly, and lashes out at Clark. Clark is actually worried about his heart now, and grabs a handful of Bruce. But even in this state, he’s slippery. Bruce almost catches Clark in the face with a sudden fist, and it’s only by hovering that he keeps Batman from shattering his fist against Clark’s face. 

Bruce breathes rapidly, and shifts so he’s curled into a smaller ball. His hands go over his ears, and Clark thinks he’s going to pull the cowl off. But he only curls his fingers tighter, as if to block out the outside world. “Noo,” Clark hears, and now Bruce is sobbing, “y—you’re dead.” And with an abrupt pang, Clark doesn’t think Bruce is talking about him any longer. Batman passes out. 

Clark picks him up and, as fast as possible, carries Bruce back towards the cave. 

**~_~**

Suddenly, about halfway back, Bruce wakes. The first thing he does is loose a hand and swing for Clark’s face. Clark leans back and Batman’s fist barely touches him. He hears knuckles creak anyway. Bruce thrashes, and suddenly, flying straight is much harder. Bruce kicks at him and Clark sets his mouth. “Bruce, I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense right now, but I need you to hold still. We’re gonna get you help.” 

“Imposter,” Bruce growls. And that’s when he gets the kryptonite out. With the other hand Clark wasn’t watching. _Oh_ , Clark thinks, before they fall fifteen feet through the air. 

Fortunately, Clark’s senses come back online. He grits his teeth, sweating, and aborts their fall. And just in time too. They’re over the forest behind the Batcave and had almost hit the trees. “Shit,” Clark hisses as Bruce screams, right in his hear. The other man thrashes wildly, hitting Clark solidly in the nose with his kryptonite-holding fist. Clark winces and feels a crack in his face. His nose starts to bleed. 

“No! Jason! Stop!” Bruce shouts, pushing impressively against Clark. He almost manages to escape this time. Clark speeds up. He needs to get back to the cave if Bruce is almost able to overpower him. 

Finally, the cave entrance is in sight, and Clark collapses, gagging slightly at how out of breath he is, just inside it. He half-falls on top of Bruce, who is still screaming, “Jason! Jason!” and thrashing more wildly than a bear caught in a trap. Diana and Alfred come running and take in the sight with startled eyes. 

“Kryptonite,” Clark forces out. Diana gasps at his nose. “Don’t worry about— me,” Clark wheezes, “Help Bruce.” 

Deftly, Alfred moves forward. “Master Bruce. You’re in the cave,” he says briskly, comfortingly. Diana grabs Bruce around the waist, holding his hands firmly. He headbutts her in the face and she hisses. “Bruce,” Alfred tries again, managing to grab the Kryptonite. He hurls it across the room. “I need you to try to control yourself, sir.” 

“Alfred,” Bruce says wildly, throat raw, “Joker. Jason. Don’t let _them_ stop me— I have to” he’s cut off as another vision overwhelms him. He begins thrashing even more wildly in Diana’s arms. Her biceps swell, trying to contain him. Alfred lets out a choking sound, and Clark sees him wipe his eyes a moment. With the kryptonite farther away, Clark’s powers are slowly coming back online. His nose stops bleeding. He can hear Bruce’s heart, actually skipping beats now. 

“We need to act now,” he says firmly, standing. 

Alfred regains control and calls, as he walks quickly to the med bay, “get the top half of the suit off. Rip it if you must. I shall prepare the antidote. Quickly.” Clark looks at Diana who nods. Clark grabs Bruce’s feet and they haul a still-thrashing, ragged-breathing, fear-smelling Batman to the cot. Alfred returns with an unmarked, clear-fluid-filled needle and straps. He tosses the straps at Diana, who catches them and hands one to Clark. 

Even with super-strength, strapping Bruce down is difficult without a two-handed grip on him. He manages to hit Diana with a large amount of force right in the eye. She gasps, reeling back for a second, blinking, before finishing her job. Bruce curses, “Fuck you!” He pants for a second, then screams, “No, no, no, no! JASON! JASON!” Clark quickens his pace. Finally, Bruce is strapped down. Clark rips the chest plate, and Bruce’s shirt. He sees Bruce’s sweat-slickened, scar covered chest rise rapidly, almost no pauses between breaths. It’s a wonder he hasn’t passed out again. 

“The cowl,” Alfred barks. Diana rips it off, as gently as possible. 

And for one moment, Bruce’s blown-out, wide eyes meet his before Alfred jabs him in the neck and he finally, finally passes out. Alfred sighs, sagging. “Thank you,” he says, relieved. 

**~_~**

After that, Diana, and Clark, retreat to a corner of the med bay, each holding an ice pack. Diana has a hand on his nose to make sure it’s healing straight, and Clark holds an ice pack to her blackening eye. Both wear sick frowns, and do not glance back at the glass case. The glass case, which at this point, seems rather like Bruce’s personal kryptonite. Clark silently wishes he could burn down that glass case... After another few minutes, Diana gently removes his hand and goes to put the kryptonite in the nearest lead-lined box. Clark wanders to Alfred’s side. 

Alfred is murmuring nothings at Bruce’s slack face, wiping his brow with a damp cloth, and brushing his wild hair back. He looks up at Clark’s approach. “I have just given Bruce a sedative, and he should remain asleep for a while now. Thank you for your help,” he says. Clark blushes. 

“After what he’s done for me? It was nothing,” he says. Alfred smiles, gaze drifting back to Bruce. He’s attached the electrodes and the heart monitor comes online, showing calm peaks and valleys. Clark hesitates, feeling like he’s interrupting something. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks. Alfred sighs, running a hand over his face. 

“If you would, fetch me a pair of pajamas and Master Bruce’s pillow,” Alfred says. 

“Right away!” Clark nods. 

Half an hour later, Bruce is completely changed and has been made more comfortable. Alfred sighs, looking bone-tired. Diana has wandered off to fetch coffee. “I’ll watch him, if you need to sleep, Alfred,” Clark offers. Alfred looks up sharply, but his gaze softens when he sees Clark’s expression. 

He rises stiffly, joints cracking. “Very well, Master Clark. But, please wake me if anything changes— anything at all.” 

Clark says gravely, “Of course.” Alfred spares one glance back at them and retreats. Just as he’s leaving, Diana comes down. She hands Alfred a coffee and comes to sit by Clark. 

“I will join you,” she says reservedly. Clark offers her a small smile. They both turn to watch Bruce’s sleeping form, thinking about the pain behind his earlier screams. 

**~_~**

It is a day and a half later before Bruce awakens. He’s been moved to his room. Diana is downstairs talking to the team. Bruce groans suddenly, and shifts. “Don’t try to sit up,” Clark says worriedly, half out of his seat. Bruce huffs, adjusting so he’s looking at Clark. 

“Believe me,” he says, sounding like he’d swallowed the desert, “I don’t think I could if I tried. Did I hit you?” Clark winces at the memory. 

Finally, sighing, he says, “Yeah, you did. I hope I didn’t break your knuckles.” Bruce raises the hand and wiggles his fingers. 

“They hurt a little, but I’ve had worse…” he pauses, lowering his gaze to look at said knuckles, “did… did I get out the kryptonite too?” 

Clark swallows, debating whether or not he should tell him. Bruce’s cool gaze is on him now. By Clark’s hesitation, he already knows. “Yes,” he admits. 

Bruce winces. He drags a hand over his face, groaning, “Goddamnit.” He looks angry. But not at Clark. At himself. 

“Stop,” Clark says firmly, “stop it right now, Bruce. This wasn’t your fault. You’re not—” 

“Weak?” Bruce hisses, shooting him the type of glare he hasn’t seen since his resurrection. Clark reels back in his seat. Bruce doesn’t notice. “What does Superman know about weakness?” 

Okay, now Clark is angry. Furious. “I _DIED_ , Bruce!” he exclaims, standing, “I think that fucking qualifies me to know what a goddamned weakness is!” Bruce flinches, eyes wide, heart speeding a bit. Clark sighs, fuming, but forces himself to sit again. To be patient. 

There is deathly silence. Clark waits tensely, still angry. Finally Bruce says softly, grunting as he sits up some, “That’s— that’s not what I meant by ‘weakness.’ You… you don’t. Don’t have _fear_ as a weakness.” He sighs, rubbing a frustrated hand through his dirty hair. Clark thinks a moment back to those screams, back to the panic, the hallucinations. Of a dead boy. Of a robin long-gone. He thinks he knows what Bruce is trying to get at, and he doesn’t like it. His anger melts. 

Clark says somewhat more understandingly, “I’m sorry, Bruce.” Bruce looks away, then up sharply. Clark follows his gaze. Diana is standing in the half-open doorway, a glass of water in her hand. Clark’s eyes go wide. He hadn’t heard her approach. 

“Mind if I come in,” she says calmly. Bruce glances at her lightly-purple eye and flinches. 

“Go ahead,” he says, sounding more tired than Clark has ever heard him. He frowns. Diana touches his shoulder and gestures toward the door. Clark stands. Bruce hasn’t looked up this whole time. He’s frowning at his hands, ignoring them both (or perhaps, lost in thought). Clark leaves, hearing the murmur of Diana’s comforting voice as he closes the door. Clark goes to find Alfred and tell him that Bruce is awake. Then he should probably go update the team. 

Superman sighs, feeling exhausted, suddenly. 

**~_~**

Neither Clark nor Superman see (or hear from) Bruce or Batman for three weeks after his fear toxin exposure. Hell, he’s barely heard a whisper about Batman in the news, or on the streets. Bruce even skips a league meeting, which is pretty damn impressive given that it’s on his own property. Diana pulls him aside and asks if he’s talked to Batman recently. Clark says no, and Diana frowns, which had really him worried. If there’s one person who’s as stubborn as (and understands) Bruce, it’s Wonder Woman. The fact that she hasn’t seen or talked to him either is… concerning. Clark decides to give him another week, and then he’ll storm the Batcave. 

Exactly a week later, Clark flies to the lake house and knocks on the front door. Alfred answers, a sort of grim smile on his face. “Ah, Master Clark,” he says, “I was wondering when you would show up. He’s in the basement, and refuses to listen to sense. I wish you the best of luck.” With that, he wanders off some where and leaves Clark to it. Clark first tries to input his code to the cave door, only for the key pad to flash red. He frowns, and sighs. So, it was going to be like that then. Well, can’t say he was surprised. 

Clark flies to the manor, and tries the second-backup door there. Same thing. He briefly considers moving the rubble that blocks off the original cave access, but even for him, it’d be a hassle and it would only serve to piss Bruce off even more. Which is something he’s trying _not_ to do. Clark sighs, and rubs a hand over his face. He needs to consider his options. 

Bruce has just about everything he needs in the cave, so short of starving him out or shutting off the power, it will be impossible to smoke him out. And even if Alfred stops feeding him, Clark is _sure_ that Bruce has some secret way to exit the cave, or to get food and his other necessities into it. Clark sighs again. If he really wanted to, he could try the secret hangar under the lake, but that ran the risk of him flooding the cave, and again, of pissing Bruce off. It’s looking more and more like his only way to get into the cave is to either have Alfred do it for him (which, for some reason, feels like admitting defeat) or to sweet talk Bruce into letting him in. And Clark had never really been good at sweet talking Batman. He groans, “Rao,” and flies off to think. 

Two nights later, he comes crawling back, ready to admit defeat. Alfred opens the door and seems surprised to see him so soon after his last attempt. He’s also probably a little surprised that Clark is here so late. Clark does his best to look pathetic, and asks, “Alfred, can you let me into the cave?” 

Alfred looks thoughtfully at him a moment. Clark does his best to amp up the look. Finally, he lets out a small sigh, and says, “Very well, Master Clark. But bear in mind, I hold no responsibility for what you may encounter down there. Again, I wish you the best of luck.” 

Clark smiles, and follows Alfred. He says, with genuine relief, “Thank you.” 

Alfred lets out a breath. “Do not thank me quite yet, Sir,” he mutters, typing in his access. The light flashes green and Clark zooms down the stairs before Bruce has a chance to do anything. 

**~_~**

Bruce is sitting cowl-less at the computer, muttering as he types. He says without turning around, “Alfred, if you’re here to lecture me again, I’m not in the mood.” He turns back to the computer but pauses at the lack of response. Bruce whips around and shoots him with a glare. 

“What the hell are you doing here? How did you—” Bruce cuts himself off, and mutters in sotto voce, “Alfred let you in. Goddamnit.” Clark, who’s been silent this whole time walks forward slowly. And watches as Bruce’s hackles raise in real time. Wow. He hasn’t gotten a reaction like this since he died. Okay, not good. Clark takes a breath to start speaking, but Bruce beats him to it. 

Still facing the screen, he says bluntly, “Save it, Superman. I’m not in the mood, so you can just go ahead get _the fuck_ out of my cave.” Clark frowns. Bruce is _angry_. His heartrate is thunder. But Clark doesn’t think that Bruce is angry at him… and there’s something else behind the beat too. It’s the tenseness, that give him away. Bruce knows he hasn’t left, and can probably sense what Clark’s doing with his powers. 

He threatens, “Clark, if you don’t get out of here, I’m going to activate the cave’s defense system. It might not do much against _you_ , but it’ll still hurt.” 

Maybe Clark was an idiot in another life time, because after that threat (which was something he should very much take seriously, given how effective Bruce has proven to be at hurting Clark in the past) he strides up to Bruce’s side _and puts a hand on his shoulder_. And wow, if Bruce wasn’t tense before, he’s tense now. His whole back goes harder than a diamond, and his demeanor becomes colder than steel. 

Bruce, interestingly, isn’t a yeller. No, he gets quieter. _Which_ , Clark thinks, _is almost scarier_. Barely above a whisper, Bruce says with apparent calm, “Get your hand off me. Right. Now.” 

Now Clark frowns. That does it. “No,” he says stubbornly, and hears Bruce’s teeth grind together, “not until you come away from that damn computer and talk to me.” 

Bruce takes a deep breath and drags one gloved hand over his face. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. Bruce plucks Clark’s hand from his shoulder and Clark is so surprised, he lets him. Bruce strides away, cape sailing out from behind him. 

Clark hurries to catch up, frowning. “And where are you going?” he demands. 

Bruce whips his head around to glare at him. “Out. Away from _you_ ,” he says coldly. And Clark realizes he’s walking to the batmobile. 

And Clark can’t let him do that. So he does the only thing he can think of. He rushes up behind Batman and wraps his arms around him— a reverse bear-hug. This close, Clark can practically feel Bruce’s heartbeat thrumming through him, and he can smell the mix of cortisol, adrenaline, and the special Kevlar-leather-metal-sweat-blood scent of the suit. Bruce jerks to a stop, hitting Clark’s arms, and freezes. He knows he’s caught. And his heart goes into overdrive, either because its owner is so furious he can’t control it, or so furious he wants Clark to know it. Clark suspects it’s probably a bit of both. 

Jaw tense, Bruce says, even more quietly than before, “Let me go.” Clark, despite himself, feels a little jolt of fear run down his spine. He ignores it. 

“Are you going to punch me?” he asks, slightly concerned. Bruce at this point is definitely coiled for action. 

There is a pause, for a moment, as Bruce actually seems to consider it. Finally, he answers, “No. Because you’ve done enough for me to be angry about tonight.” And that. That actually hurts a bit. For a brief moment, Clark considers letting Bruce go, stepping back, and saying, ‘you win.’ But then, he doesn’t. Because that is what Bruce wants. 

Clark had also spoken to Diana, after his resurrection. She had explained some things to him, and Clark has been learning since then too. Batman, he has come to understand, is constantly playing a game of emotional chicken. Bruce is afraid, deep down, of letting anyone in. And, to be honest, Clark couldn’t (and still doesn’t) blame the guy, despite how much it fucking pisses him off. 

Bruce has a cycle, no, a dance. He draws nearer, is vulnerable, opens up, and then retreats, going back between the two, as if the process was some kind of waltz. And when that doesn’t work, he hits the pressure points. And that, _that_ is more effective than kryptonite. Because everybody has pressure points. Everybody breaks, eventually. And so, people give up on Bruce, and leave him alone. Like he thinks he wants to be. _And that was what Clark hadn’t understood, before._

Clark realizes, after this thought, that this fight was long overdue. Because Bruce, ever since _bringing Clark back from the dead_ , had been letting and letting and letting him in. And like a rubber band, Clark (and the league) have stretched Bruce’s sense of comfort, his sense of solitude, and stretched, and stretched, and stretched it to the max. To the point where all it would take for a recoil to occur would be one small (or not so small) snap. That snap had been about as subtle as Joker. That snap had been the fear toxin. So Clark understands why Bruce is being… difficult, and sets aside his very real (and deserved) annoyance. Because after admitting his mistakes, Bruce had done everything he could to fix them, had done _everything_ for Clark, and so Clark owes it to him to try and do the same. 

Clark comes back to himself with a blink, and realizes that Bruce has been entirely too quiet. He realizes too that this quiet, coming from Batman, is dangerous. He also observes that Bruce is subtly trying to reach for the belt. Faster than a human eye can see, Clark snatches his hands, and adjusts his hold. Bruce growls at him, but slightly weaker than before. He’s still tense, of course, but given enough time, anyone’s system will run out of adrenaline, of stress. And Clark can (and will) wait Bruce out just like this if need be. Bruce seems to realize his plan, because he curses, “Fuck you, Kal,” and grits his teeth. His heart still stampedes on, and Bruce holds himself more rigid than marble, and radiates cold more frigid than that of space. Clark just holds him. 

**~_~**

Forty minutes later, they’re still standing in the same spot. Bruce’s heartbeat has calmed down significantly, but other than a twitch or two, he’s only moved because he’s breathing. And Clark can still _feel_ the tension radiating off him. But it’s working. Slowly, it’s working. Clark offers again, “Talk to me Bruce. You know I can do this how ever long it takes.” Valiantly, Bruce ignores him. Were it not directed at him, and if he wasn’t so fucking annoyed by Bruce’s obstinacy, Clark would almost be impressed. 

In total, it takes _an hour and a half_ for Bruce to yield. Around the fifty minute mark, his breathing hitches and his heartrate suddenly plummets, stuttering coldly back to baseline. That doesn’t say everything about his emotional state, but Clark knows that in humans (and in him too) breathing, heartrate, and hormone levels all contribute to how emotional a person feels. At the 75 minute mark, his legs start shaking intermittently; it’s hard to maintain perfect posture while also deliberately holding tension in one’s body. And Bruce had been doing just that this whole time while _also_ trying to stay furious at Clark. After the 80 minute mark, Clark hears Bruce grit his teeth again, as another wave of shaking begins. “Bruce,” Clark says gently, tiredly. Bruce shakes his head. And Clark’s heart breaks a little more for this stubborn man. And then, finally, at 90 minutes, Bruce sighs. Clark’s hearing perks up, waiting for Bruce to finally, finally say something. 

“You want to talk,” he says, tone clipped and cold, “let’s talk.” 

“Alright,” Clark says, and lets him go. 

To his credit, Bruce only stumbles a little after his first two steps. He sinks into a chair, and goes utterly limp, as if exhausted. He brings one (still gloved) hand up to rub at his face. And then, Clark realizes, Bruce probably _is_ exhausted. Because Clark had gotten here at 10:30 pm and it’s now almost one am. He feels a little bad. That is, until Bruce’s gaze focuses on his and Clark sees that he’s _willing to listen_. 

**~_~**

Things change after that. In all, Bruce and Clark probably only actually talk for half an hour that night. But their (relatively) brief conversation seems to get through to Bruce, somehow. He unlocks the cave. He takes off the suit and goes up to bed. Alfred, who is sitting in the kitchen, polishing silver wear with a precise focus that can only mean he’s worried, looks up. For a brief second, he looks astounded to see Bruce, who doesn’t even spare him a glance, too intent on getting to his bed. Clark is unable to help himself, and shoots Alfred a triumphant grin. 

Alfred says warmly, “I should have never doubted you, Master Clark. For, it seems, this truly was a job for Superman. Well done.” Clark grins again, blushing slightly. 

“It just took a little bit of stubbornness,” he says, “goodnight, Alfred.” 

“Goodnight, Sir,” Alfred says, standing. Clark lets himself out of the house. 

**~_~**

A year, to the day, after Clark’s resurrection, Bruce pulls him aside after the league meeting. Feeling a little puzzled, Clark follows as Bruce drags him by his arm down the hall (he never has quite gotten used to Clark’s immovability, and treats him like anyone else. Clark wouldn’t have it any other way). Clark first starts paying attention to the sounds when they reach the hall. Bruce pulls him along, heartbeat elevated slightly. Now Clark is feeling apprehensive. Bruce glances back at him once, as if to make sure he’s there. Then he opens the door to the secondary, larger meeting room and Flash jumps out. “Surprise!” he shouts. And then Bruce lets him go and steps back. 

Clark wanders into the room, and sees the table has been moved aside to accommodate more people. There’s a whole table of food, drinks, and a cake. There’s streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads, ‘Happy Re-Birthday, Superman!” Most importantly, his Ma, Lois (with whom he’s reestablished a friendship), Alfred, and the rest of the league are there. He actually feels himself tearing up, and Flash says teasingly, “Batman! You made Superman cry.” And Clark’s eyes go wide at that. Bruce, who is standing in the corner with his arms crossed, actually flushes. 

“You planned all this?” Clark asks. 

Bruce scowls, embarrassed. “Well, actually, it was mostly your mother’s idea. I just had the space and time to help her out with the details,” he says gruffly. But that’s enough for Clark. He flies across the room and is hugging Bruce before he has time to think about whether that’s a good idea or not. Bruce stills in his arms, and his face must be pretty comical because Arthur, Flash, and even _Diana_ start laughing. After another moment, Clark takes pity on his friend and lets go. 

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. 

Bruce rubs at his hair for a moment and drops his hands. “You’re welcome,” he says finally. 

Flash whoops. “Let’s get this party started!” Clark laughs brightly, feeling glad (once again) to be alive. 

**~_~**

About an hour into the party, Clark feels a light tap against his shoulder. He turns around. It’s Bruce. He still hasn’t relaxed (no matter who he’s with, Bruce has never— will never— enjoy parties) but he looks at least somewhat comfortable, with a glass of lemonade in-hand. “Come with me… I have something for you,” he says cryptically. His heartbeat’s nervous. Clark nods, and tries to smile reassuringly. Bruce turns around, setting his glass down on the way out. 

They walk in peaceful silence through the refurbished manor. They walk past the bedrooms. Past the training rooms. Past the kitchen. Past the monitor room, the war room, the medical center, the laundry room, the showers. Finally, they come to the office (the only space Bruce had renovated to match the original). Bruce pauses in front of the old clock. He winds the time and the clock springs aside, to reveal the second door. Instead of a keypad, he’s replaced it with a biometric scanner. Clark blinks, unsure of where this is going. But he’s willing to wait. 

Bruce clears his throat, and looks at his feet. He swallows once, and lets a small huff of breath escape. Now Clark’s really wondering what this all is about. Finally, it seems, Bruce has prepared himself enough for whatever it is he wants to say. Clark looks at him intently. 

“Clark,” Bruce begins simply, “Four years ago, I could never have imagined— imagined all this. To think that I’d be here… with all of the league, Alfred, you, would have been an incomprehensible thought. To be honest, I doubted that I’d still be around. I felt certain, at the time, that a _particular_ alien menace would have taken me out, or perhaps, I would have taken _him_ out and some punk would merely end up getting lucky. Anyway, I _never_ could have foreseen what would actually happen. And most of the changes in my life happened because of you. Well, you and Diana, but don’t tell her that. She’s already far too pleased with herself.” Bruce smiles, and Clark chuckles. Bruce raises his gaze, and it’s open and earnest. 

He continues, “I also never thought, after what I’d done, that things would ever get better. But I realized, when you died, that my thinking was _wrong_ — fundamentally so. And I suddenly saw the world with very different eyes. After twenty years of doing this, I’d become so jaded, so cynical, so _lost_ that my initial purpose, my beginning goal, had been erased. You, and the league, have helped me find it again. And that… that _gift_ is priceless. So I wanted to get you something that at least attempted to be as meaningful.” And now Clark can see where this is going. He swallows, heart racing. He feels apprehension, but in a good way. He is waiting to see if he is right. 

Bruce takes one deep, steadying breath, and walks over to the biometric scanner. And now Clark’s heart is racing. Because _oh my god, he’s right. And this is HUGE! Oh my god_. Bruce is going to speak again, so Clark forces himself to focus. Bruce says, looking slightly past Clark, “The only thing I could think of, that could even be remotely as meaningful, was trust. Of course, trust is rather intangible, and even I can’t make something intangible tangible, so I figured the next best thing would be… this. Go ahead.” He gestures to the scanner and Clark walks forward slowly. He wants to savor this. He holds his hand up to the scanner, mouth feeling oddly dry, butterflies bashing against the walls of his stomach. 

Clark holds up his hand to the scanner and feels a slight heat as it does its job. After a moment, it flashes green. The cave door opens. Clark whirls back to see Bruce watching him, a tiny smile pulling on the corners of his mouth. He strides past Clark, calling, “Shall we, Clark? I don’t think I’ve ever given you a proper tour.” Clark smiles, and follows Bruce into the cave. 

_Trust_ , he thinks, _Bruce’s absolute trust. There’s not a better gift he could have given me than this._

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a prompt request for me and are waiting for it, I'm sorry it's taken so long! I've been busy (and sick) recently. BUT I AM working on them, and only on them. So you won't have too much longer to wait!


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